


This Unfair Magic

by Grigiocuore



Category: Galavant (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Movie Star!Richard, Richard and social awareness are parallel lines, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Richard Kingson - movie star, LA's adorable bachelor, and pain in the ass. And meet Gareth too - body guard, ex-soldier, and not dealing with his feelings since 1995.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Unfair Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MuiromeM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuiromeM/gifts).



This Unfair Magic

 

 

The studio was ablaze with golden lights, the interview half-way through, and Richard was doing his magic.

Well, it wasn't exactly magic. Or it depends - if you call magic something made of precise gestures and charming words and laughter sending chills and flickers down one's spin like flocks of butterflies trapped in the ribcage, then yeah. It was magic. Anyway, Richard's thing was sudden as magic. As illogical and unexpected. As unfair, too.

"...And yes, that's about the whole of it" he was saying, curling his lips in a polite smile, leaning over, a bit closer to the young host’s chair than TV etiquette prescribed him to be. Blushing. Girly, delighted chuckles.

"Oh, Mr.Kingson, you really are something!"

"Oh no ma'am, please - Mr.Kingson is my father. I may be old, but not that old."

"Oh, Richard."

Oh, Richard. That was it. The sum of a career, the magic formula of Richard's success - oh, Richard. Richard, adorable prodigy star, making audience cry and laugh with his big blue eyes and Christmas pranks, Richard young promise of Hollywood, chestnut curls and clean face. Richard being Richard, in his forties, yet ageless, sinless, the eternal boy, the upper-class kid skidding gracefully through Hollywood hills. And how can you not love him? He was managing to look good under a TV studio lights for God's sake, the unforgiving, crude lights turning anyone into a sad dead fish pinned to a chair. In them he glowed: snow-grey hair, outrageous eye-lashes - always a step from malicious, never more never less-, exquisitely-tailored blue jacket highlighting out pale wrists and delicate bones. And the eyes. Lil Richie's blue blue eyes had never changed - so innocent, so clear. They can rob you of a soul, those eyes.

The word more often laced with his name, on the tabloid titles in celebrity section, was charming. And Richard was charming, when presented with a script. Only when presented with a script.

"Well, I have no words to express how grateful I am for this opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Kingson - sorry, I mean Richard. It has been a pleasure."

"Oh, pleasure’s all mine, dear Sophie." He exhaled, hands loosely entwined on the side of the armrest, one long legs crossed over the other - his long lean body cracking in the suit fabric like a wing unfurling. Hoards of girls and women (and men) swooning in front of the screen, the host blinking overly-painted eyes in the unforgiving lights, closing theme music. The cameras turned off. Some more moments and Richard slipped on his feet, gracefully, letting the girl close his hand in hers, "what a pleasure, thank you, best wishes for the movie, really". He blinded her with a smile. Racked a hand through his hair, turned - and finally, finally, saw him. They had been there countless times, it had happened in thousand of different sets, thousand of different studios, nothing magical at all about it, and yet, he couldn't help be surprised. Be amazed that that silver scrap of god, that thing made of tailored suits and loving smiles, would look for him in a room full of brighter lights.

He chose me. This time, this time too, Oh, thanks Gods.

"I'm gonna disembowel you, Richard" Gareth told him - holding the half-crumpled bag in front of him. "I'm gonna disembowel you, chunk you into pieces and blend you into a goddamn Frappuccino."

Richard didn't seem baffled by Gareth's threat. At all. Instead, he smiled. "Mmh, how graphic Gare-bear. Happy to see you too."

"Happy to-" Gareth clenched his jaw, swallowed, felt teeth almost crack in their sockets. Meanwhile his best friend had reached the package - a terrible pink-striped thing that dripped oils all over his Maserati's seats -, prodding it with long inquisitive fingers. "You called me saying you needed me ASAP - by the way Asap is not written ASOP, Richard, that would make no sense - and made me cross the damn city to "get your package" at 1132 Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica. "

"And you made it." Richard replied smoothly. "Perfect in time."

"Your damn package was five donuts from Dunkin', Richard. I got strawberry-flavored sugar coating everywhere. I'm gonna disembowel you, Rich, that's the last time-"

A small delighted sound got him sidetracked. Richard and his squirrelly hands had managed to slip past the package seal amidst his rant, and he was now proceeding to dig into a green-coated donut. Then he turned to him, smiled, and it was all over again.

"Mmmh- chocolate filling!" Richard chomped around a bit, pushing a green flake in his mouth with a long finger. It was absurd. No one should be able to stuff their cheeks like a chipmunk and then look glamorous a second after. A title from Celeb Reviews skidded through Gareth's mind, Richard's face with his reading glasses, eased down on his leather armchair, bright orange words proclaiming him "The Most Mysterious Bachelor in Hollywood." The Most Mysterious Bachelor of Hollywood gulped down a lump of donut and turned to lick his lips.

"Thank you Gare-bear. I was literally starving up there." he chirped, rummaging in the bag without bothering to pick it up himself and let Gareth go. But he wouldn't go anyway. He could barely breathe, as it was, because now Richard had tucked a finger in the donut frosting, curled it, put it in his mouth. Pink tongue coming out, just a glimpse, small and warm. Gareth sucked in air, tried to look away, died inside.

It wasn't right. You motherfucker, you bleeding motherfucker stop it. He's Richard. He can barely see four inches forward without his glasses, he sleeps with a hoard of stuffed animals. You saw him throwing up his banana smoothie in fourth grade while supporting his forehead the whole time. You saw him sob like an idiot after his birthday party. All alone, Gareth by his side, as always, why did they not come Gare, why did they not come?

Don't worry, Richard. They're idiots. Don't worry, Richard.

Gareth unclenched his fingers from his palms and realized he had lost a solid ten seconds of his life. Richard hadn't noted. He had finished licked off his fingers was was wolfing down another quarter of the donut, calmly and happily.

"Ah, my Gare. You saved me." He said. Letting his hand rest on Gareth's armpit for the briefest moment.

"Take me home now? I'm bored."

A pinch on the arm - Gareth smacked the hand away without even thinking about it. He gave an affirmative groan and turned on his feet. He waited for Richard to pass in front of him, as a habit, because Richard had just always walked in front of him - to keep an eye on him, to make sure to open a umbrella for him it starts to rain, to just be there first. Choirs of greetings around them, "Hello Richard!", "bye bye, see ya soon!". Richard answered all of them, and started to barrage him with a steady stream of chit-chat about his day, as if they hadn’t spent together most part of it. Gareth didn't mind as much as he should.

"So, what are we going to do tonight Gare?"

"Nothing Richard. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I have intention to chase your bony ass around the city to hold your bloody coat."

It's a lie. I'll do it kid. I'll do it.

He held the bag in his hands, making sure not to shake the donuts too much. Felt grease plop on his polo. It was the last clean one. Oh, Hell.

"The lil’ shit from production called again." Gareth said. "Said I have to drag you to the set eight a.m. "Alive or Not Alive but Still Decently Pretty", they said."

"Ah!" Richard chuckled, smiling a fond smile around the last chunk of green donut. "Maddie, she's really something. I like that girl."

"Mh."

They had gotten out, directly in the parking lot Gareth had come running into splashing through puddles, and started moving to the sleek Maserati resting past the row of streetlights. It was a chilly winter for those Californian folks, but he and Richard were tough Devonshire Kids and were perfectly all right. Richard gulped down the bite, curled the paper-wrap in a hand and shoved it into Gareth's pocket with ease. Earning a grunt, not a real complaint.

Gareth caught him cringe and rub at his eyes. He groaned.

"Contacts?"

"Aye." Richard rubbed at his eyes some more, blinking up at the sky. "Hurt."

"I told you you should just quit that crap Richard. You should go with glasses - your fans like them, I don't think they're gonna complain."

"Mh, yes." Richard laughed, a quiet thing made of city smoke and dry words. It wasn't a true laugh, but Gareth liked it. He'd show that laugh to everyone persuaded Richard was just an extremely attractive head mounted around an empty box. Gareth blamed Richard for making him use words like "extremely attractive".

"They may like glasses for five seconds in a scene from a rom-com - but I doubt they'd find very intriguing the guy needing four-inches glasses not to trip over his own feet. They never like that kind of guys.”

It was a moment. Richard stopped talking with a shiver in his voice and there it was -suddenly he wasn't the star anymore but the awkward child, the fat kid weeping over silent balloons at his birthday party. Unfair magic. Gareth wanted to say something, some of the dumb things people say to people to make them feel better. C'mon Gareth. You can do this. C'mon it's Richard, it's Richard for God's sake.

"Ah, Richard-"

"Yes. All rubbish, you right." Richard shuddered under the velvet jacket. Shook a hand in front of Gareth's shoulder. "Now pass me the bag. I'm hungry."

Gareth obliged and offered the DD bag, feeling pretty useless, feeling absolutely inadequate and kicking himself for thinking it. Richard dwelt a hand in and scooped out a second donut, still warm and fragrant, the scent of melted sugar and soft dough still thick in the air. He was grinning again, taking a big mouthful, eyes clear and candy-like, like no unfair magic had taken place and the fat kid never existed. He was normal Richard again. Charming Richard.

They set off through the lot, in Hollywood's coldest nights that never bothered tough Devonshire kids.

Don't worry Richard, they're idiots. Don't worry, Richard.

*

The girl was beautiful. Or Gareth supposed so- beautiful was one of the words he took great care in not using. He was a bodyguard, for God's sake - if he felt like flaunting about true love and merry feelings and beauty in the world (yes, he had skidded through Richard's Literature books back in college) he would have become a damn poet. But the girl was surely - adequate. Thin frame, bird-bones, soft hair falling around the deep blue neckline of her dress. Blue eyes.

She had hit on him at the bar, the trendy violet-lighted lounge one block from Richard's flat where he crashed for a drink when the day had been exceedingly shitty. Gareth hated it. There was too plush and not enough beer, too sparkly cocktails and not enough brawls. But there were girls. She had slipped on the stool beside in a whoosh of velvet and rose perfume, without asking permission but painting it all with a small embarrassed laugh. The laugh had made him stay. Shrill, somehow savage, like a chain of bells ringing all together.

She said a name, he said his. He paid her drink, she got a bit closer. She had come to him for the car, for a shot to Richard' bed, for him himself maybe - it didn't matter. She was thin, had soft hair and eyes blue enough in the violet lights, and Gareth was so goddamn tired of confused things.

She said she wanted to smoke a cig, if he wanted to come. He said yes. He shoved her against the door on the back of the bar the second they stepped outside - but gently, protecting her head and her hips, pulling them both in his jacket, because people with soft hair and blue eyes should be treated with care, should be taken with effort. She kissed him, he let her kiss him and slipped a hand down her thighs, up her dress. Closed his eyes. The rose perfume was good, but was chemical, and it was showing – fragrant extracts draining on skin and vanishing off and vodka and tobacco transpiring. He squeezed his eyes harder. She wrapped herself around him, fidgeting with the zip of his jeans, breathing hard in his neck. She was easy to hold, light, so light, bony hips and warmth spilling all over his hands, but it didn't work. C'mon Gareth. That's right, Gareth, that's easy, you know how it works, you know how it works. He bit and grasped and held, but it didn't work. She brushed his cheek and told him it was all okay and his brain screamed it was the wrong voice, and what are you doing Gareth what are you doing, and then he was screaming in rage and slammed a hand against the wall and turned to bend down and gulp down air in large gulps. It has never been that hard before. It was getting worse. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

He felt a shuffling behind him - soft clack of high heels on concrete, a hand resting on his shoulder, brushing tenderly the back of his head.

"Who is she?"

Gareth didn't expect that question; he hadn’t expected any question actually. He breathed again, coughed on the breath, pushing sickness down his stomach. He barked a laugh.

The girl apparently got it. She gave a soft whistle, keeping brushing his neck as he tried not to puke his stomach and five shots up.

"Oh, I see" she said."Who is he?"

Gareth straightened so fast she almost smacked her off. He stood there, taking a step behind, eyes wide, as if she'd just pulled out a knife and slit it through his belly. Kind blue eyes looked at him with compassion -and that wasn't right, dammit, that made things worse.

"You know nothing about me." Gareth breathed out. What if she said something. What if she said something to hacks. Hell, what if she was a reporter-

"Whatever you want, big man." The girl took two steps forward, pushing up her strap. There was a single neon light in the hallway, buzzing dully above the door. She passed right in the beam. The girl's hair was bleached blond, not silver, and the lips were too full and too red, and the eyes. The eyes were the wrong blue.

"Sorry." He said. "I didn't want let you down. I didn't want-"

"No worries, big man." The girl leant against the wall, lighted up a cig; taking a deep drag, she watched him with those kind wrong eyes. "But if you want a friend’s advice - and even if you don't want it - listen up, big man. Tell him. Tell him and fuck the world. Whoever he is, however this happened, it's not going away falling in my bed."

"Mh."

The girl chuckled, took another drag. She wasn't right, not even close - but she couldn't know it and was just trying to be gentle. It was something he could respect. More than he deserved.

Gareth took a last deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. Now crawling back home and stupefying himself till he’d be actually drunk sounded like the best course of action. He headed off along the alley, towards the parking lot of the lounge, half-hoping in a couple of idiots wanting put up a fight with him. As he passed in front of her the girl smiled. Smelling of vodka, of warm skin, certainly not of roses.

C'mon Gareth. This you can fix. No one is watching. No one will know. And she has blue eyes.

Gareth turned on his heels, came back to the girl, head down. Talking softly.

"You're beautiful, girl."

She smiled. "Thank you, big man."

*

Gareth knew it as soon as Richard slipped in the car.

"Oh tell me you didn't." He said, very softly, hands clutching around the wheel. "Richard, tell me you fucking didn't."

"I have no idea what are you talking about Gare-bear" Richard said, and he was lying - Gareth could feel it on the tip of his tongue, could count on the fingers the times Richard had lied to him. He wouldn't even use all of them. And why shoulder he lie? He knew Gareth would follow him, stupid, mad, pathetic or batshit crazy, he would follow him. Gareth slammed the key in and powered up the car, feeling furious and bitter and worried all at the same time.

"You know perfectly what I'm talking about, Mr. Kingson." He hissed. He reversed to Mr. Kingson only in dire times -Mr. Kingson was easy to yell at, easy to despise, easy to reprimand. He felt the man at his side jerk. Not my problem, Richard, not my fault.

Richard tightened his lips, turning sharply to the window, the light of the theatre dimming in distance behind the sheets of rain. He didn't object - he was too smart for that. Crumpled shirt, tie half-hanging around his neck, tucking locks behind his ears five times in three minutes. Swollen lips. Someone had kissed Richard, hard, well. Letting hands wonder with a certain skill. Richard rubbed a hand over his and in the faint light of the cabin his skin flushed in pink, like strawberry milk. It shouldn't bother him. It shouldn't hurt.

"You made out with that little minx from Production, right?" Gareth asked coldly.

"The name's Madalena, Gareth" Richard shot back, head snapping to him. "She’s not that little minx."

He didn't say he wasn’t right. Of course. Gareth clenched the wheel harder, feeling leather cave in under his thumbs, feeling it was not enough. "She's gonna use you Richard. She's gonna use you to push her damn film, get some covers and then she'd throw you away - she's beautiful Richard, okay, but I know the type."

"What's it Gareth?" Richard asked. In the rear-view mirror he saw his lips puckering in that small curled smile he hated, eyes fixed on him. He looked like an old doll.

"Worried about tabs? I'm forty-five, I think me hanging out would hardly be a scandal."

It was a lie, they both knew it. He had said it just to hit, just to hurt.

Gareth cursed under his breath. He should have known. The signals were all there - Richard's voice spiking when talking about he, and all those brunch reunions to talk about "character development" - definitively, definitively two of his least favorite words - and that long-limbed auburn-haired gal crawled out of Chicago slums, being too beautiful and too dangerous not to attract him. Madalena was gasoline fire, Richard was a country dragonfly. She'd burn him. The Wrap Up Party had been a trap. Wine, low music, getting to take the coat, and meanwhile Madalena pushing him against the old ladies’ furs, don't worry Lil Richard, don't worry.

Gareth's ears were roaring, he could barely hear a sound. He could barely hear Richard.

"Stop bitchin’ Richar- Mr.Kingson."

"Well you too Gareth." He hissed back. He racked a hand through his hair, pushing them back, smiling that curled smile again."I cannot believe it. You're my best friend. You pestered me to get a girl for ages, to get a date- and now that maybe I can get one, you're all grudge-y."

Gareth breathed through his nose, slowly. Home. Take him home Gare - then the evening would be over and you'll be good and he'll be good too. The highway loomed in front of them in harsh neon lights. Traffic jam. Typical. Shit.

"She doesn't want to "date" Richard. She doesn't."

"Dammit, Gare!" Richard snapped. In the dark he stiffened against the seat, head a furious shake of grey hair on his left. "It is, just so totally absurd to think someone can be interested in me? In the actual me?"

Gareth felt like laughing - laughing badly, like on the back of the bar, like every time before crunching someone's head against a locker, back in school. You don't know the things I did for you, Richard - why they left you alone, despite your blazers and glittery pens, despite your squeaky voice and the glasses. You never wondered, right? It was so easy, right, just coming to me and cry and say Oh Gare-bear. Gare-bear was scary, Richard, Gare-bear was a bully and locked people in the locker rooms for a night and made kids cry, Richard. All for you. All for the actual you, Richard.

But he couldn't say it. No, of course, not even a part, not in the least.

Ever wondered why I pushed you so much Richard? Ever?

"Whatever you want, Richard. I just, I just don't want to see you-" Miserable. Sad. Hurt. "- making a fool of yourself."

Richard flinched like he had just punched him in the gut. He sniffed loudly, hands gathered in his lap. Clasped tight. The traffic was fast, cars dashing around them, casting butter lights on Richard's profile.

"You think I never feel lonely, Gare?" He said softly. "That I haven't ever, wanted - ached for love?"

"If you mean company-"

"You know damn well what I mean, Gareth." He said. "We talked about it so many times. About finding good people, and feeling all those things, and just, ‘be damn happy in a honest house with no pesty neighbors’."

He smiled, a real Richard smile, and it hurt. He had scribbled those words on Richard's hand in ninth grade, on the Yearbook Day. He had meant every word. Eyes on the road man. Gareth shook his head, swallowing words. "That was years ago Richard. Decades ago. Doesn't mean anything."

"It should mean something. -It has to mean something."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." Gareth said. Eyes on the road, old man, eyes on the road - shit this rain is hard, shit too many lights. He squinted, because squinting on a dark road not to turn upside down with your car was still better than looking at Richard. Still better than getting so angry you can't breathe.

"Ah! Of course you don't want." Richard mumbled. "I know you don't believe in those things, Gareth - I know, all bullshit, all blah-blah, all Richard's things, you're too cool for that. But I do believe in that Gare. I'm a Richard. And Madalena makes me feel like no one has ever made me feel before. She makes me feel wanted, and I'd go with it."

"Whatever you want." Gareth replied, narrowing his eyes. Not knowing how, he found himself slashing a arm around, gesticulating. It didn't happen since middle school and the day he decided he was going to be an Iron Man and not a Hulk. But the choices were gesticulating, or punching something hard, repeatedly. "Do the hell you want- wanna smash into a brickwall? Not my problem. Suit yourself. It's about time I stop nannying you like you're a goddamn toddler."

"I never asked you to do so." Richard shot back. Silence fell. Gareth's head was throbbing, he asked, prayed for silence to stretch out, Shut it Richard, Please, for all you hold dear, shut it. He didn't.

"Gareth, look at me and tell me why you're so angry."

"You don't know me at all? I'm always angry." Gareth laughed again - a scorching sound crawling in the dark, throbbing with his head. "And I can't. It’s raining, I can't look away."

"Gareth, look at me."

"No."

"Gareth" Richard's voice tightened. He felt him shift on the seat, the whoosh of the seatbelt as it got stretched. He slammed a thin hand against the car door. "It's an order."

"You can't order me around, Richard” Lights, rain, drum drum, dammit. "you can't-"

"I can." Richard shrieked. He leant across the seats, leather squeak, fingers clasping on his arm and digging in the flesh.

"Then tell me why Gare. Tell me why you don't want me to be happy."

That stopped time. That stopped time and the universe and Gareth's brain too, down to the last joint, and for several moments he couldn't remember how to breathe. Just drumming. Drum, drum. "I don't want-" Gareth gulped down air, turned to him. He saw Richard's head in the watery lights, bluish and sharp, a floating thing made of pretty lines and flowing hair, sad, the most incredibly attractive thing he had ever seen.

"You're such an idiot Rich-"

It was a second - it's always a second. Gareth felt the impact before seeing the other car’s headlights flashing through the dark, the metal crashing into the rear door - on Richard's part, on his part, he didn't know - and cracks shuddering up to the teeth.

The second lane, rain covered it. He knew it.

Richard cried. Gareth leapt forward, pushed his head down. Shards of glass everywhere. Wheels skidding under him. Out of control, horns around, as suddenly the world was just glass and rain and lights flashed in Gareth's eyes. There was a second rough tug, then a jump, the car half-twirling in the air like a toy. They were gonna flip. Wrapped arms around Richard's head. A third thud, crash. The car stopped - metal crumpling against something hard, a tree, thousands of dollars gnarling like tin cans. The smoke seeped through the air vents. They were alive.

Gareth drew in the first breath in a minute. It didn’t hurt, no blood, a bit of coughing. He looked down. Richard was plastered around him, nose smashed against his chest, breathing hard - but he was looking up at him and was perfectly conscious. An ugly cut over the left eyebrow. Gareth brushed it with a thumb, without thinking. They'd have to take care of it. Shouldn't leave the scar.

"You all right?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Gareth took in the second breath in two minutes. He disentangled himself from Richard's arms - that had clasped at some point around his arms, digging deeply, he didn't care- and went for the door. It was blocked. He kicked it, once, twice, till it gave out with a loud groan. Gareth peered out. They were out of the highway, down the guardrail; he had counted two bumps so it made sense. He pushed himself all the way up off the car, and bit back a curse. The left ankle ached. Badly. Sprained it pulling the brakes, rattling in the crash? Who knows but now it fucking hurt and he couldn't see a thing in the rain.

He had to assess the car damages. They were all right, someone up there probably already called help. It had not been a bad accident. The word hit Gareth’s mind like a phoney punch. Accident. You got Richard in an accident. The thought make him feel sick. And angry, always angry.

Long hands tucked at his sleeve. "Gare, can I-"

"Get out Richard." He said. "Get out of the car, but stay close. Stay close."

The hand lingered around his sleeve, hovering over his wrist, waiting for him to pick it up. Then it fell back. Gareth heard Richard pushing the door open - the good one, not the wrecked one- , expensive boots squeaking in mud. Gareth's eyes stayed locked on the nose of the Maserati. It was a wreck. Apparently they had banged against the guardrail not hard enough to fli themselves, but enough to smash the front and both right headlights; the engine smoked slowly and buzzed waves of heat through the churned chunks of bod. Gareth crouched in front of it, letting a hand flow across the seals. The ankle burnt like fire pumped in his veins. Dammit. Gareth was cold, rain pouring down collars and drenching fabric, and he granted himself a moment to lean there with closed eyes and mourn his brand new flaming car.

"Gare-bear?"

Gareth cracked one eye open. Richard was standing not a foot from him, arms wrapped tight around his chest, staring at him through wet locks with a pale pinched face. In the surviving headlights he looked even paler, and the cut stood out stark against his skin like a demonic mark, like a deep-red signature.

Gareth mumbled an “I’m here” and got up to get back to the driver part. There was a lamp somewhere there on the dashboard, they could use one while waiting for the cops. He was still angry, and tired, so damn tired. Get him home, get home, get drunk. The plan was that, needed minimal adjustments. Bring him to stitch the cut, check the ankle, get him home. That was right.

Richard followed him with pale scared eyes. He flinched when he called him.

"Richard, you still have your phone?"

"What?"

"Your phone Richard." The glove compartment was empty. The torch should have slipped out of it, under the pedals. "Still have it? You can call 911 too, save time."

"Oh. Oh." he mumbled. "I don't know Gare. I don't know."

The alarm went off in Gareth's mind as soon as he heard Richard's voice. Richard never mumbled. He whined a lot, screamed, moaned and did a hundred thousand other things adult men aren't supposed to do with their voice, but never mumbled. Gareth stood up abruptly, closed the distance between him and Richard with fast careful steps. He was still standing in the same exact spot he left him in, blood dripping on his eye from the red signature, almost glowing in the dark. Ice rushed to Gareth’s chest. He chocked through the cold.

"Richard?"

Richard turned to him, calmly - blinking with a slow baffled look. "Gare-bea-" he whispered. Then things went to Hell extremely fast and Richard's eyes rolled in his head and he crumpled in Gareth's arms a second before he hit the ground.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

*

"Richard" he called. "Richard!"

He didn't answer. Gareth eased him down, on the ground, holding his head, nudging his cheek to get a reaction. Nothing. Richard’s face was white, so white. For a moment Gareth stopped. Just stopped - no thoughts no feels no pain no plans. If Richard was gone, then stop. Game over. Game over.

Get a fucking grip, old man. Breathe.

Richard gave a shallow breath in his arms – it was the shove he needed. Gareth's training kicked in smoothly, pushing muscles to move. He arranged Richard against his shoulder - head, it's always the head, protect it, avoid supine in case of convulsions -, held him with one hand as he loosened his collar with the other. The tie was gone already, thank God. He pressed two fingers against his neck, waited - then there it was, a pulse, too fast and shallow, but there. He shifted his hand to Richard's forehead, pressing gently. He had gotten even paler in seconds. A faint veil of cold sweat veiled his skin. Commotion. Probably. More than thirty seconds of unconsciousness.

"Richard c'mon - wake up." Gareth kept cradling Richard’s head, checking his breath, trying to wake him up. Inside it was all white and screams. It didn't matter. "Wake up Richard."

Behind them people were collecting by the roadside - he could faintly hear them across the rain, lights flashing, feet pattering and voices crying out to them, but he managed to tune them out, senses stretching for but one sound. When it came, Gareth's head shot up. A siren. He could almost glimpse red and blue lights over their head. The ambulance, they should have called it by default. Oh thank you Californian snoops, oh thank you. He had asked Richard, but they didn't manage to call cops on their own. Because he had a commotion. Because his brain was bleeding out. A imposing voice cried something over the guardrail as feet slid down the slope, and Gareth felt something snap deep inside the gears.

"Don't die Richard" he whispered in Richard's hair."Don't even think to die."

"Sir" a voice called behind him. Male, the same imposing one he had heard before. Paramedics. A shadow hovered over his shoulder, light sticks flickering around them. "Sir, are you hurt?"

It took Gareth some seconds to process the words. He was still munching them, and then a pair of hands grabbed Richard's shoulders and it was obvious, the one most obvious thing in the world to let out a growl and jerk backward and hold him closer to his chest.

"Don't touch him". He hissed. "Don't touch him."

Don't touch him. Don't break him. Please.

The male paramedic had squatted in front of him; in the half-shadows Gareth saw a overalls-wrapped knee, smile in a strong jaw. "Sir, it's all right. We're here to help. Is he hurt?"

Hurt. That Gareth's mind could process. He licked his lips, gulped down air. "Yes." he said. "He, hit his head. Concussion. He doesn't wake up." He stopped - one beat, two, then he couldn't shut up. "He can’t die."

There was a stretcher. The hands reached out again, and now Gareth saw they were not grabbing anything, but wrapping gently Richard's shoulders to lie him down. The owner of the hands cast him a large reassuring smile- laced with tension around the edges. They needed to move. Gareth let go of Richard, one finger a time, till the woman with the reassuring smile could take a hold of him and shift him on the stretcher. There was a blur of activity as the paramedics rushed in, oxygen masks, hushed medical words whispered over his head. But you don't understand, you don't understand, I can't breathe, if he dies.The things that will happen if he dies. He caught some recognizable words, "bleeding", "immobilize", "pressure". Richard looked so wrong there in the middle of buzzing men and women, with the oxygen pushed into his lungs. He looked so small, a paper plane to crumble in your fist.

"Sir, you can come with us on the ambulance."

"Damn sure I can."

Gareth didn't remember getting on the ambulance. He knew brains play these tricks - shutting off minutes, whole parts of the stories, to keep the whole thing functioning. He knew there were more lights - and yes, it was the light he'd remember first about that evening; the lights blinding and fluttering around them -, shadows of people on the side of the road, him jumping in a big box smelling of metal and antiseptic and his heart thundering in his ears. Not, not metal, plastic. Ambulances always smell of plastic.

Then Richard stiffened, arching his back. The woman paramedic rushed past him, get off sir, as she called for her colleagues and things he couldn't pronounce. Gareth stared with wide eyes as Richard's body jolted on the spot, arms twitching, writhing like a screwy engine. Convulsions. He had expected this. He felt like throwing up.

It should subside fast - it didn't. Gareth gulped air down and was pushing back the doctors without remembering it. "What is this?" he cried, screamed. "What is happening to him?"

"It's the concussion" the imposing voice said "we suppose there’s no brain damage, but we can't rule out a fracture."

Brain damage. Gareth stared at Richard's face as he kept twitching, gasping loudly under the oxygen mask, white shining through eyelids. A stronger spasm shot through him, Richard's head arching back again, then it disappeared as sudden as it had come and Richard just crumpled down. Face went slack, he was even greyer than before. The paramedics worked around the heart monitor. Brain damage.

Gareth ignored the nice woman's directions and reached out and grabbed Richard's hand. Inside, all was snapping.

"Don't die Richard" he said, all in a rush "oh please God don't die. I'm sorry for Madalena Richard - marry her if you want. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for calling it a demonic mark." He licked his lips, ran off of breath. "I'm sorry, don't die, Christ Richard, don't die."

It's all true Richard. Do you feel my hand? Do you feel how much it's shaking? I'm so scared Richard. What am I supposed to do without you mh? What am I supposed to do? It's you, Richard. It has always been you.

Richard's face was cold under the mask. They were cutting his shirt off, sticking paddles for the machines. He was so still and Gareth was so terrified, terrified convulsions start again and the world blurred around the edges and he bent forward and he couldn't breathe. A hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry Sir. We got him. We got him."

Oh Richard, it has always been you.

 

*

 

Gareth realized he was about to doze off for the third time when his head lolled on the side and nearly slammed in the IVs pole standing on his right. Oh, Hell. He sat up straight, rubbing the spot of forehead that had connected with the metal hinges of the thing, clenching a curse between teeth. Usually staying awake was not a problem. He had done it for years, with Richard's job and ungodly airport times and diva sleep schedules - a thermos of coffee and strategical naps between Richard's social rendezvous and he could go on for four days fresh as a rose. But usually he hadn't been in a car accident in the previous half an hour. Usually he stayed awake in Richard's comfortable hotel room, with a quiet breath echoing from behind the bedroom door.

He cast a glance to his left.

Aye. Right.

Richard was lying in a ER bed, one of those half-gurney things with greenish covers and curtains drawn around them, and was sleeping. Yep, actually sleeping - doctors told him they had already gone through with an EEG and emergency CT scan there was nothing too terrible. Serious concussion, a microscopic skull fracture, no brain damage. Gareth's legs had almost given out when they told him. They said they'd keep him under observation for the night and then send him home, as long as someone stayed with him.

"Keep him aware, sign whatever sounds funny. Ah, and check on him every two hours-"

"For the concussion, yes." He had answered, casting a glance at his hands, at the bundle of clothes they had handed him." Been through that."

"Police?"

"No. War."

"Oh."

Still, Richard looked like a wreck. He was pale, in the gaunt way of curdle milk, eyes sunken in puddles of dark. The IV hand looked like a stack of bones poorly wrapped in paper-thin skin, almost translucent in the faint shadows. Gareth leant in and racked a hand through his hair out of old habit. Richard's hair were a thing of wonder, soft and thick, always smelling like ten thousand oils and half a billion of shampoos. Now they were matted with cold sweat, half-caked with mud. He brushed them off his forehead. They had bandaged the cut too saying it was going to bleed too much. Apparently the idiot had managed to hit his head in the ten seconds he wasn’t protecting that thick skull of his. The scar would remain.

"Paparazzi are gonna eat us alive in no time, ye know it right?" Gareth asked softly. "They'd know in an hour at best, if a nurse hasn't spilled the beans yet. Little mean punks, all of them - I'd never get how they know every damn thing happening in this city. Damn Richard. And you left me dealing with them on my own."

He curled lips in a half-smirk. It fell in a heartbeat. No, no damn - never damned Richard. I'm so sorry, Rich. I'm not the sweet tongue one.

He reached out again, tucked another lock behind Richard's ear, stopped to play a bit with his ridiculous pirate earring. Rich. He had stopped called him like that around their sixteenth birthday, more or less when they went to pierce their ears together like the teenage dorks they were. A rite of passage, like in Polinesia, had said Richard. Sitting on the shop's chair, squeezing his shaking hand, one ear to the phone telling blatant lies to Richard's parents. He had stopped calling him by the nickname then - it felt too personal, too cheeky for the bodyguard of a young star. Getting back to it now was a terrible idea. Rich was worse than Richard, was the lanky teen with the infected ear after a single earring. The lanky teen that asked him to teach him how to kiss. Show me, Gare, please. I have nobody else to ask to.

A movement prodded him. Gareth turned and pushed the ugly hospital chair closer to the bed. Richard's forehead was creased, eyelids fluttering. He held his breath till blue eyes blinked up at him.

"Gare - Gare-bear..?"

"Hush" Gareth's hand fell naturally against Richard's forehead. "Easy there tiger. Easy there."

Richard blinked a second time, mouth half-closed. He saw his eyes dart around the room - bleary eyes, a bit foggy, a bit glazed -, staring puzzlingly at the fingers plastered on his forehead. The idiot had tried to sit up, and Gareth was ninety-nine percent sure that was a horrible idea. Richard lifted an arm, saw the IV coming off it, and gaped loudly. "Gare" he croaked. "Gare, where are you?"

"Right here, prat" Gareth moved closer, hovering over the bed, one hand still resting against Richard's forehead. He should be perfectly able to see him there, even with his crappy eyesight. He cursed himself for not taking his spare glasses from the car dashboard. But could he wear them with the concussion and all? He didn't know and really it didn't matter a thing. Stop over-thinking Gareth, you're not fifteen. "Right here."

Richard's eyes flicked to his voice, squinting, and Gareth remembered suddenly the docs' words. Blurred or double visions, and to expect it for a few days at least. He cursed again and turned Richard's face in his direction.

"See? I'm here. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh." Richard rasped. He slurred words around the edges, like his mouth didn't really respond to his orders, and Gareth could see it was making him upset. He racked a hand through his hair for comfort.

"What, what' pened?"

"We had an accident." Gareth said. "We crashed in the guardrail, I didn't see a car coming behind us. You hit your head really hard, but it's all right now."

"What?" Richard gasped, eyes widening; he shifted on the bed, and with a surge of alarm Gareth realized he was trying to get up again.

"Richard, stay put." He pushed him back again, pinning him down like a pinned butterfly. He probably put too much strength in the hand and felt a loud thud as he collided against the pillow. Gareth swore. "For Christ's sake, you'd hurt that big head of yours again."

"An accident." Richard stuttered. He closed his eyes, eyelids fluttering. When he opened them again he stared at Gareth's hands with a puzzled gaze, and Gareth felt a sickening foreboding rushing up to his stomach.

"Gare-bear?" Richard whispered. "Where are you? Where am I?"

"Damn." Gareth bit his lip. "Richard, we've been through it already. We got in an accident, we're all right, we're in ER. It's all okay. Just stay put and-"

"An accident.” Gareth saw Richard’s eyes jolt to the side, met the neon lights falling from the side of the stall, jerked hard. "Urgh..." He slapped his left hand on his eyes, teeth bared in a hiss of pain, stretching the IV tubing. Gareth stopped it a second before the pole flipped on the bed. "What's it?" Gareth leant over him. "Richard, what's wrong?"

Richard kept shielding his face; moaning softly, a constant pee pee like a cell out of batteries. "Light" he whispered.

"Oh - lights, okay. Okay." Gareth shot on his feet, trying to slither the chair legs as silently as possible, and turned to fumble for the neon switch on the wall. He found it and turned it off. The stall fell in soft comfortable darkness. He wasn't sure he was allowed to turn off lights and he didn't really give a damn. "Here we are" he said with a sigh. "Here we are, no more light. Better?"

Richard wasn't settling down. The hand was still clasped over his eyes, and he was breathing hard; through the fingers Gareth saw they were squeezed shut. The headache must have gotten worse; he knew how those damn things worked. He rushed back to his side, before the twat managed to pull his eyes out.

"Richard, calm down for God's sake" Gareth pleaded, bending over the bed, tearing his hand off his face. "Calm down. Rich, calm down."

Something clicked. Richard's fingers stopped fighting – curled fast around his. "Gare-bear" he said in a soft, soft voice. "Where are we? My head hurts."

Gareth plopped down on the chair, exhausted. He didn't even try to disentangle his hand from his own. "You hit your head Richard."

"Oh. Where am I?" Richard's head lolled on the side, hair falling across his forehead. He wrinkled his face when the curls got tangled with that long nose of his. Gareth pushed them back with his free hand. "It's dark- it's night Gare? It’s bedtime?"

Oh, Hell. Gareth wasn't exactly blown away. Docs said memory played weird tricks after concussions and he knew it from experience. The prat thought they were kids, or teens, back at home where their rooms were one door from each other and Richard tip-toed in his one night yes and the other too. Hell.

"No Richard-" Gareth stopped. Bit down his lip. Richard wouldn't remember a single thing of this night, he could say that - and right now he was curling on the bed, hand grasping his, eyes fighting exhaustion to stay awake and understand where he was. A single ill-advised word, and he'd get scared again. Gareth rubbed his neck and sighed. Who cares. It's all a mess already, who cares. "Yes - yes Rich. It's late. You hit your head again. Now sleep. Sleep, Rich."

He awkwardly patted Richard’s shoulder, pulling away at the most painstakingly slow pace possible - but Richard had nothing of it. He grabbed him back, pulling him down, to his face. He pushed Gareth's hand under his cheek.

"Gare - my head hurts."

"I know Rich, I know." He wasn't trying not to call him that anymore. What the Hell, what the Hell, it’s all a mess. What the Hell. "See, I'm not going anywhere. I’m right here. You just sleep Rich. I'm right here."

Richard was staring at his hand, charmed. He blinked with hazy eyes. "I know." he croaked.

That was unsettling. Gareth swallowed it, stashed the moment where he could find it later, study it when it’d hurt a tad less. Then he inched closer, carefully moving Richard's shoulder up against him, holding his head so it didn't get too many jolts. Hospital protocols my ass. Richard leant in the crook of his collarbone with a sigh, moaning a bit when his gauze scraped the shirt, but finally closed his eyes. He was tangling all the blankets and the IV tubing was a mess, but Gareth could manage. Past the curtains a doctor called out, rubber shoes pattering on the floor. A child decided it was the perfect moment to scream his lungs off.

"What’s it Gare?"

"Nothing Rich. Just sleep."

The phone buzzed in that moment. He had taken it with him without knowing - abandoned in the rear pocket as he fumbled around - and he had thanked soldier automatisms and the car dampers for that IPhone thing not to get broken. Gareth slipped it off his pocket with a growl, cast a glance at the caller and slid the answer bottom. No sense in delaying.

"That's not the moment."

"Gareth?" Vincenzo's voice was trembling, squeaking around vocals. He sounded like an overgrown teen even more than usual. "Are you okay? Heard on the news, a friend called from the LA-"

"The news? Oh, fuck." Richard made a small alarmed sound and Gareth calmed him, rubbing his back. He tuned it down of some octaves. "Well- We're in hospital. That's not the moment."

"How is he? News said the accident was bad, that his head split."

"No one's head had split tonight, prat." Gareth whispered, with all the scorn he could muster at that volume.

Split head. Damn vultures. All of them.

"What I should say then?" Vinnie whined. "Press is calling, asking me questions."

"Tell them the hell you want - you're our press agent for God's sake." Gareth sighed; he closed his eyes, rested his chin on Richard's hair. "Look, Vinnie, that's not the moment. Find a way. Tonight’s not the moment." A breath, two. "Please."

The kid was quiet for a moment. He could practically feel him nod through the phone.

"Got it Gare. Just, take care of him."

Gareth arranged the cell against his ear, checked on the man propped against his shoulder. Richard had fallen asleep, or something like this, one hand still wrapped around his, every wrinkle showing.

Always.

"Yeah. Yeah I'll do that."

*

The first thing was the news theme. Richard recognized it, he had stayed up to listen to the star system section way too many times, the faint po-poppo-roh playing under synthetic trumps. Had he fallen asleep watching TV? Why news? He never watched news if he was not on it. Dear, he should go to bed. Tomorrow he’d be a total zombie. And his neck was all stiff. And his head – uh, never mind. He fumbled around, felt something soft under his cheek. Screw Gareth for leaving him sleep on the couch. He hated sleeping on the couch.

Richard heaved a sigh. He cracked an eye open, started to sit up and felt his head explode.

There was no better way to say it: black and white stars deflagrated behind his eyes, as a surge of pain crashed in his forehead like a bullet. Richard swayed hard, blinking, not getting why the shadows of his bedroom burnt like supernovas jabbed right into his head. "Oh, poop." He rasped, and started falling forward, hands wondering, half-hoping to just black out and try again when there was no bullet digging in his skull.

A frantic stomping of boots rushed to him; then strong hands had grabbed his shoulders, pushed him back on the covers - not too gently and still with the greatest care.

"For God's sake, Rich" Gareth's voice hissed over him. "Can't leave you alone five minutes, can I?"

Richard didn't deem necessary to answer; he contented himself with curling up on the bed, squeezing his eyes and doing his best not to throw up the shrimp cocktail he had at the gala. Ugh. Food. Wrong turn Richard wrong turn. He cradled his head in his hands to stop it from disintegrate, and then he felt it. A coarse thing, stretching across his forehead. A bandage. He pressed it with a single finger and his head burst into flames again. Pain, and fire, and a bullet cracking bones open. Richard took a deep breath, trying to swallow the nausea down, a second breath. He heard a pitiful whine and was reasonable sure it was him.

"Don't touch." One of the strong hands - Gare's hands- grabbed his prodding fingers, uncurled them from his scalp like you do with a scared cat's claws. The hand ran up his arm, past the shoulders, rubbing comforting circles on his back. "Easy there. It's all right. Easy there, just breathe."

Richard obeyed, gulping down air. His temples pumped fiercely, pulsing along his racing heart. He wanted to let Gare know he had heard him, but couldn't remember how to talk. His tongue felt like a chunk of sponge stuffed in his mouth. The thought reminded him of the shrimp cocktail and Richard found himself curling tighter around a new surge of sickness.

Gareth's voice was close, somewhere against his temple. "Hold there - get you something. Don't move, okay?"

Not in a million years. The hand left his back, regrettably. A shift of sheets, the bed jolting as weights changed, careful steps. Richard tucked his nose in the sheets as waves of fire flowed over him. He lost track of time. Then Gareth was brushing his hair, something fresh and plastic pressing against his lips. "Drink a bit - but slowly. Don't choke yourself."

Richard bit down the straw and took a sip; the water was fresh, vaguely lemon-tasting - he gulped down half a glass without even meaning to. He licked his lips with a relieved sigh. The nausea was still there, lurching somewhere between his stomach and the thought of cocktail snacks, but at least his tongue felt like a tongue again.

"Gare." He mumbled. "I don't feel well at all."

"You betcha." Gareth's voice was gruff, tender around the edges. "You remember anything? About last night?"

Richard munched memories through his mind. He squeezed his eyes harder. "The, party." he murmured. "Vinnie talking of Chinese TV opportunities. The Valencia group annoying us. Madalena-" He stumbled on the name. Madalena. She had brought him to the closet, said they needed to talk. She had kissed him. He had been so surprised, so happy. Oh, Gareth. Richard licked his lips. "Eh, Madalena-"

"Making out with Madalena" Gareth said. "Aye, got that part. Nothing else?"

"Oh." There was something in Gare's voice - a shift, imperceptible. Richard was good at imperceptible shifts, but not now, not now.

"No - nothing else."

"Okay. I expected it." Gareth said. "We had an accident Rich. We were talking in the car, it was raining and I lost control of the car. You hit your head and got a small skull fracture. And a concussion, as now it's six in the morning and it's the third times I tell you the whole sto-"

"Arguing."

Gareth frowned. "Sorry?"

"We weren’t talking. We were arguing."

Richard was talking against the pillow, slowly and carefully. A blue bleary eye had snapped open and was staring right at him.

Gareth's eyebrows shot upward; trying to pull down the smile at the corners of his mouth and failing miserably. "So you do remember something more, mh?"

Richard nodded. Shameless prat, deep to the bone.

"We were arguing about me and Madalena. About us." A pause. "I'm sorry Gare-bear."

Gareth shook his head, barking a laugh. It got off a bit harsher than intended, a bit less composed, but it didn't matter. He leant to the bedside table to turn off the lamp.

"Shouldn't you be a bit more concerned about other things?” He asked. “Like your head nearly gotten smashed in smoothies and your precious brain-"

He trailed off. Dammit Gareth - Dammit. Ten bloody years serving and still being such a pounce. He had prepared like a dozen of watermelon and peach jokes, while checking on him through the night - Richard loved those things. But that's the problem. It was Richard. And he’d nearly gotten him dead. Smashed in the head.

"Gare. Don't go into Gare's Wasteland, please."

Gareth winced, blinked. The blue eye still boring disturbing holes in his skulls. "Mh?"

"The place you go when you furrow your brows like a discontented bear and think the whole world's your fault." Richard explained. "Gare's Wasteland. I don't like it when you go there. And it's not your fault. And I should be the one saying sorry."

"I was the fucking driver Rich, of course it's my fault-"

"Well then let's say it's both our faults. We both have faults." Richard suddenly stiffened, breathed hard through gritted teeth. The blue eye had shut close. "Ohi. Ohi ohi ohi."

"There - you see?" Gareth stopped trashing with the table things, pushed himself off the bed. "Just, stop talking and sleep, okay?"

"-But it's true." A pale hand shot out to curl around his sweatshirt. Richard's hands had always perfectly met all the skinny hands descriptions: spidery, bird-y, stick-like. To Gareth though they had always looked like paper foldings.

Richard was looking up at him through half-closed eyelids, holding tight. Freezing him on the spot.

"I said ugly things Gare. I don't remember well but - I know how I am. I didn't mean it Gare. But I just, want to be happy. I know it's stupid, but-"

"Richard, we're not having this conversation."

"Yes we are." Gareth pulled at his sweatshirt, the hand didn't let go. The idiot would make him flung him out of the bed before giving up, he knew it. "What's wrong with Madalena, Gare?"

"What's wrong-?" Gareth got free of his hold with a jolt, rubbed a hand on his head, way too hard. He snorted. "God Richard, only you, only you can try to have touchy-feely conversations right after getting a concussion."

"You didn't answer me."

Gareth made a dismissive sound and marched around the bed. Richard’s gaze never left him. "Where are you going?"

"Pharmacy." Gareth growled. "Ibuprofen. Stay there, come back right away." Gareth set his jaw and made a quick leap for the bedroom door, grabbed the handle. He suddenly needed air. He suddenly needed to get out of Richard's flat - that spread like a Andy Warhol loft and was furnished like a English granny's cottage -, felt as tired as he should have felt after that night, felt even the bloody ankle giving out under him. He didn't want to talk. They had talked and what had come of it? Smashing through a guardrail. Talking was no good. He pushed the door open and was off in the corridor.

He was passing the commode - ah, another word he blamed Richard for teaching him - when he heard noises coming from the bedroom. The cover being tossed on the side, a bumping sound like something bumping off the carpet. Getting closer.

"Oh no" Richard rasped. "Oh no, you're not gonna get away with it so easy."

Gareth cursed. He cast a glance over his shoulder. "What the hell, Richard."

The twat was standing by the doorway, one hand clutching the jamb for his dear life. In the corridor lights he looked bleached white. He swayed a bit on his feet, and Gareth got angrier.

"Richard, go back to bed. You can't even stand on your feet."

Gareth saw the chandelier lights was starting to annoy him. Richard took a deep breath, fingers digging in the wood, until he managed to look up again without throwing up on his socks. "No. You're not gonna get away this way Gare-bear. You own me some answers."

"I own you nothing" Gareth snapped. "Go back to bed and wait, Christ."

The only way to get rid of Richard was outrunning him - so Gareth sped up along the corridor, up to the front door. He grabbed his jacket from the armchair he had thrown it over and put it on with a shrug. The left sleeve was still smeared with Richard's blood. Dammit.

"Why you got so angry about Madalena?" Footsteps behind him, uneasy and bumping into the walls like a drunken rabbit. Dammit dammit dammit. "Why you got so angry?"

"Richard. Go. Back. Now."

"Nope." He whined. Pursuing him, bumping into something again - one of the damned commodes probably. "And you do owe me something. You nearly got me killed, that had to mean some-"

"Don't-". Gareth felt his words dry and die on his tongue, burnt to the core. He was using the blackmail voice, the spoiled brat voice he had used with his parents. He hated that voice. He hated when he got cruel. The anger was so clean and so devastating it nearly hurt, rising up through his veins – short-circuiting his brain. Gareth swirled on his feet and reached out and before he had time to think, before he had time to regret it, he was digging fingers in Richard's shoulders. He pushed him closer - hard, hands shaking badly.

"Don't say bullshit" he snarled. He was screaming. He was suffocating. "Don't say bullshit Richard."

Richard breathed hard, face shifting to greenish again. He didn't pull away though. Shit Richard, I could break you like a bloody stick, and you wouldn't pull away.

"Why, were, you, so, angry Gareth?"

Gareth. That was Serious Richard, who was totally different from Charming and Normal, another thing entirely. Serious Richard didn't get swayed - he hadn't the night of the coach, the night Gareth silently prepared his rucksack for the military camp thinking he was alone. So Gareth sighed, and stayed there, and kept his hands around the shaking serious man in his arms.

"Richard" he whispered. "Don't make me say it. Please, don't make me say it."

"I don't understand Gare." Richard asked. "You spent years, years telling me that I should date, that I should "man up" and have a fling and ask women out-"

"You just don't get it don't you?"

"No, I don’t." Richard leant in, rested his hands on Gareth's chest. "But you're not the only one that cares Gare-bear. I see how sad you get sometimes. I see how far you go sometimes. Tell me how to reach Gare's Wasteland too. Tell me how I can make you happy."

He meant it. He could feel it in Richard's voice, in the way he was tilting his head -because a life spent together did this to a person, and made you feel the waves of warmth seeping through your shirt and his hands, and see him beautiful even with mud-caked bloodied hair. He meant it, and under everything else he smelled of damned roses.

Gareth wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he grabbed Richard's hair and slammed him against his mouth.

"Like this."

The kiss was nothing perfect. Gareth was more at ease with fucking than kissing - Richard with neither. It was a potential disaster. It wasn't. Gareth slipped his hand down Richard's shoulders to his waist, pushing him closer. His fingers clasped around Gareth's jaw, held him in place. It was moist and warm and disorganized, tasting vaguely of medicine and lemon. Breathing hard. Pushing and pulling. Gareth's hands ran further down - because he couldn't stop, not now, not now -, grabbed Richard's thighs, pulling him up. He felt him gasp in his mouth. Oh, yes, yes. No fake blue eyes, no fake roses. That's the real thing. Oh God, now burn me on a steak, throw me in the ocean, that’s it all, that’s it all.

He broke the kiss out of need, blinking like a drunk. Richard let his head fall on his shoulder without a word.

"Oh." He whispered at last. "Oh."

"Yes." Gareth panted. "Marry her Rich. Date her, fuck her - whatever you want. I'll be there. This changes nothing. I'll be there. Go to bed no-"

"Gare, you love me?"

Gareth muttered a curse. Trust Richard to make it awkward, to ask the wrong questions at the absolutely wrong times. Gareth's mind was still a white sheet, reeling from the kiss, breath fast, damn horny. He couldn't think of a proper answer. He still felt Richard's mouth closing around his tongue. He said the truth.

"You're Richard."

Richard said nothing and Gareth realized he was still holding Richard by his thighs. He was so damn light, him. He set him back on the floor, with the kind of care you use for those extremely fragile Chinese vases, and turned to the door before he could think about it too much. Well played Gareth. You lost a job. You lost a friend. The whole darn thing. And you don't regret it.

When Richard jumped on his back Gareth nearly smacked his chin against the doorway. He propped himself on one hand, and around him was all a mess of old cotton and rustling hair and warm strong arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

"You're not gonna get away so easily, Gare-bear."

Gareth was trying hard to breathe. Breathe through turmoil, too.

Ah, turmoil. Another word he never wanted to use.

“What’s it, Rich?”

Richard talked in his ear. "You're Gareth."

And as always, it was Richard's fault.


End file.
